Lost in That Autumn

He kissed me in the darkroom, called me his prodigy.

Later, I learned he nurtured prodigies only to find scapegoats.

On the day of the Autumn Festival, he stood on the rooftop and yelled, Run! Don't look back!

I didn't run. Instead, I raised my camera, aiming it at the colossal lie poised to swallow him whole.

He thought I could live. He didn't know I chose to stay. To become, with him, the final frame of that autumn.

My name is Emily Reed.

When autumn rolled around, I was a sophomore.

Oakwood's campus was drowning in fallen sycamore leaves.

The wind would whip them up, a rustling cascade that sounded like money raining down. Nobody picked it up, though.

They just trampled it underfoot, that annoying crunch-crunch sound.

Our school has this tired tradition, the Autumn Festival.

Basically, it's an excuse for everyone to go nuts C an arts fair, sports day, capped off with a massive gala, like a weird, premature New Year's.

Every year, the whole place buzzes with this manic energy.

You could practically taste the restless anticipation in the air.

I hated the noise. Pointless.

I was nobody special.

Blend into a crowd? I practically invented it.

Back row in lectures.

Corner booth in the cafeteria.

Walking? Along the walls. I liked it that way. Less hassle.

I first saw Lucas Vance in the cafeteria.

The place was packed like sardines.

Balancing my tray C a sad scoop of mashed potatoes and some steamed green beans C finding a spot felt impossible. Just as I was about to give up and head back to my dorm, I saw him.

He sat alone at a table meant for four.

In front of him was a plate with a perfectly cooked steak, silverware gleaming like it belonged in a different universe compared to everyone else's plastic sporks.

He wore a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms smooth and pale as marble.

He ate quietly, meticulously cutting small pieces, chewing deliberately.

The whole thing was fluid, like a slow-motion scene from a movie.

Several girls nearby kept sneaking glances, their eyes glued to him like he was the last piece of chocolate cake.

Putting on airs,I thought with an internal scoff.

Just then, a girl carrying a bowl of soup slipped. She shrieked, stumbling right towards Lucas. That bowl of steaming-hot chicken noodle looked destined to paint a Jackson Pollock masterpiece across his pristine white shirt.

I flinched, bracing for the yell, the apology.

Silence.

I opened my eyes, stunned.

Lucas was somehow already standing. One hand steadied the girl's wrist; the other held the bowl. The soup sat perfectly still in his grip, like it was glued there. Not a drop spilled.

The girl was ghost-white, stammering, S-sorry, Lucas

He placed the bowl back on her tray, his voice flat. Watch where you're going.

Then he sat back down, picked up his knife and fork, and resumed cutting his steak. Like he'd just swatted a fly.

The whole thing took maybe three seconds. Blink-and-you-miss-it fast.

I stood there, tray in hand, feet rooted to the floor.

I knew him. Lucas Vance. Photography Club president. Campus royalty. Handsome, loaded, and apparently, a photographic genius. Rumors said his pictures could win international awards. People like him lived on a different planet.

He seemed to sense my stare. He looked up, his gaze sweeping right over me.

Just a glance.

My brain buzzed. I clutched my tray, turned, and shoved my way through the crowd without looking back. Finding an empty corner, I slammed my tray down, grabbed my fork, and shoveled potatoes into my mouth like my life depended on it.

I choked, spots dancing before my eyes.

A voice inside my head hissed: Damn, he was hot.

I signed up for "Intro to Photography" class just to earn some credits.

I thought it'd be easy. Snap some flowers, some trees, hand in a few pics, and be done with it. Little did I know, this course required joining the photography club and participating in their activities.

On the first day, I dragged myself to the clubroom.

The place was packed. Cameras of all kinds were everywhere. I fingered my ancient point-and-shoot and seriously considered bolting.

Then I saw him.

Lucas lounged on the central sofa. He held a lens, polishing it slowly with a soft cloth,, surrounded by a chattering group.

Lucas, will this lens give me good bokeh for portraits?

Are you entering the Autumn Festival photo contest?

Can you teach me how to shoot the Milky Way?

He didn't look up, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.

I tucked myself into the farthest corner, hoping to go unnoticed.

Newbie?

A voice beside me. I turned. A guy with glasses introduced himself as Zach Peterson, the VP.

I nodded.

Name?

Emily Reed.

Be on time for activities. Call ahead if you can't make it. With that, he went back to managing the crowd.

Then Lucas finally spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but the room fell silent instantly.

The newbies, come here.

My heart plummeted. My feet felt glued to the floor.

Everyone looked. Head down, I shuffled forward.

Your name. Why you're here. Zach started calling names, jotting notes.

When it was my turn, I mumbled, Emily Reed. For the credit.

Someone snorted a laugh.

That slow, deliberate voice cut through the quiet. For the credit? Lucas lifted his head, his gaze landing squarely on me. That point-and-shoot. Is it yours?

I nodded, clutching my relic tighter.

He stood up, walking towards me. He was tall, I barely reached his shoulder. He stopped in front of me, looking down at the camera in my hands like it was a museum artifact.

Know what aperture is?

I shook my head.

Shutter speed?

Head shake.

ISO?

Another shake.

Snickers rippled around the room. I felt utterly stupid. Why did I pick this stupid class?

He suddenly reached out. I flinched back.

He didn't touch me. Just used two fingers to twist my camera's lens cap slightly.

Fingerprints on your lens, he stated, his tone as casual as commenting on the weather. For a photographer, the lens is their eye. How can your eye be dirty?

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Because of the look in his eyes after he said it. No mockery. No disdain. Just calm, steady regard. Like stating a simple fact.

Then he looked away, addressing Zach beside me. She's mine.

The room went deathly silent.

Then exploded.

What?

Lucas is taking a newbie?

One who doesn't know aperture from a hole in the ground?

I was stunned. His? What did that mean? I was a person, not a lens.

What are you waiting for? he said. Come here. Carry these camera bags to the storage lockers.

I stood frozen, brain still offline.

That faint smile reappeared, edged with something mischievous. What? Don't want your credit?

I gritted my teeth, walked over, bent down, and hoisted seven or eight heavy camera bags, one by one.

That night, back in my dorm, my arms felt like lead.

My roommate asked what happened. I spent the afternoon being a pack mule, I said.

I didn't say the pack mule driver's name was Lucas Vance.

When Lucas said I was his, he wasn't kidding.

From that day, my life got complicated. While others took pictures at club meetings, I became Lucas Vance's personal assistant.

I handed him lenses, batteries, memory cards. After shooting, he'd toss his camera to me. "Export the photos. Sort them properly."

Sometimes, if he was in a good mood, he'd instruct me.

His teaching style was unique.

Once, the club went to the park for an autumn shoot. Everyone was snapping golden leaves.

I pointed my little camera at a lone sycamore leaf on the ground, clicking randomly.

He appeared behind me without a sound.

What are you shooting?

I jumped. A leaf.

He glanced at my camera screen. That's not a leaf. That's a yellow blob of garbage.

My skin had thickened a bit. I didn't blush, just lowered the camera.

He suddenly leaned in, his body almost flush against my back. His chin rested near my shoulder, his breath warm on my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

Look, he said, reaching around to cover my hand holding the camera. His hand was large, warm, engulfing mine completely. Composition guides the eye. This leaf is good, but the background is chaos.

He guided my hand, shifting the camera slightly. See that light? The beam slipping through the leaves? Put the leaf in the light, let the background fall dark. Then it shines. Get it?

I couldn't speak. He was too close.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Stop shaking, his voice murmured low in my ear, commanding. What are you shaking for? Am I going to bite you?

His words made me shake harder.

He seemed to feel it. A soft chuckle escaped him.

Forget it. He released my hand, stepping back. You're not getting it anyway.

I exhaled, relief mixed with a strange emptiness. I couldn't decipher my own feelings.

That evening, as everyone packed up, Lucas called me over.

Emily.

Yeah? I was wrestling with a heavy bag, looking up.

He stood by the window, his usual casual expression gone, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Which dorm are you in? he asked.

I told him.

He nodded, silent for a moment, then pulled out his phone and tapped.

My phone buzzed. A Facebook friend request.

I fumbled, accepting it.

His profile pic was black. His username was just a dot.

His first message arrived. Tomorrow, 3 PM. Old Library. Third floor. I'll teach you the darkroom.

The darkroom?

I stared at the screen, mind blank.

The club had a darkroom, but only seniors could use it. Rumor said it was Lucas's private domain, off-limits to someone else.

Why teach me?

Before I could process, another message popped up.

And bring that yellow blob of garbage. Reshoot it on black and white film.

I glared at the words, wanting to hurl my phone across the room.

I typed back. Thanks.

He replied with a dot.

Shoving my phone in my pocket, I hoisted the heaviest camera bag and walked out.

The wind outside was sharp, biting my cheeks. I buried my face in my scarf, but somewhere inside, a small warmth flickered.

The Old Library was the campus relic, rchoked by ivy. Rarely visited, especially the third floor C rumored to be an old morgue. Nobody went here.

I arrived at 2:50 PM, pacing the stairwell, my heart pounding.

The third-floor hallway was long and dim, windows blocked by black cloth. At the end was a door with a sign: "Authorized Personnel Only."

The darkroom.

I stood before it, hand raised several times, too scared to knock.

Just as I decided he was messing with me, the door creaked open from within.

Lucas stood there, wearing a black tee, hair damp like he'd just showered. He frowned at me.

Late.

I checked my phone: 2:59. I'm notC

I said three o'clock. Not three o'clock arriving at the door. He stepped aside. Get in.

I walked in.

Don't panic. His voice cut through the darkness. Follow my voice.

His hand found my wrist. Still warm, like heated stone in the cool air.

He reached out, his hand warm around my wrist, and guided me through a few turns.

He let go. A soft click, and a dim red light bloomed.

I saw we were in a small room. Rows of drying photos hung on lines, all black and white.

The red light gave them an eerie glow. A large sink dominated the center, surrounded by bottles and trays.

Indeed the darkroom.

Sit down. He pointed to a stool.

I sat.

He picked up a camera from the table C an old film camera I'd never seen.

Learning the darkroom is fundamental, he said. Here, a blank sheet becomes a world.

He began teaching me. How to load film into a developing tank in total darkness. How to mix chemicals. How to control time and temperature.

His voice sounded softer under the red light. He explained each step meticulously, demonstrating everything.

When his hands guided mine, our fingers sometimes brushed. Each time, I jerked back as if shocked.

He seemed to notice, keeping more distance after that.

The final step, printing.

He took the negative of my yellow blob leaf and placed it in the enlarger.

Your turn.

I stood at the enlarger, adjusting focus, exposure time, as he'd taught.

I slid the photo paper into the developer tray.

Seconds ticked by, but nothing happened.

Panic fluttered. I looked up at him.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching silently.

Just as despair set in, an image began to emerge on the paper.

The leaf appeared. Against a dark background, it slowly brightened.

Its veins clear, edges glowing. It was no longer a garbage. It looked like a butterfly wing, resting there, radiating a profound, solitary beauty.

I was mesmerized.

See? Lucas's voice came from behind me. Light and shadow are the language of photography. You can use light to turn trash into art. Or art into trash.

You have talent, he said suddenly.

I whipped my head around to look at him.

Me? I couldn't believe it. I didn't even know what aperture was.

Knowing technique makes you a technician, he said. Knowing what's worth capturing makes you a photographer. You didn't know aperture, but you knew that leaf in the light would be beautiful. That can't be taught.

My heart started its frantic drumming again.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Just then, the darkroom door shuddered under a heavy, urgent pounding.

Lucas! Open up!

Professor Miller's voice, strained and anxious.

We both froze.

Professor Miller never came here.

A flicker of panic crossed Lucas's eyes.

He strode to the door, didn't open it immediately, but spoke low through the wood. What is it?

The Offering there's a problem! Get out here! Professor Miller's voice was hushed but frantic.

Offering?

The Autumn Festival was a party. What offering?

I stood frozen. The photo paper slipped from my fingers into the developer. The beautiful butterfly vanished, swallowed by the black liquid.

My heart plummeted with it.

The door opened.

Professor Miller rushed in. He pulled Lucas into a corner. They spoke rapidly, voices too low for me to catch.

I stood frozen. The strange, intimate warmth of moments ago evaporated. The air crackled with tension and something sinister.

I caught fragments.

the Pact

time moved up

can't find a suitable replacement

he has to

My mind buzzed. Pact? Replacement? What was this? Some secret society initiation?

Lucas stayed silent, his expression growing grimmer. Finally, he seemed to reach a decision. He turned sharply, his gaze locking onto me.

Professor Miller followed his gaze and sighed. No not her she knows nothing

It's fine. Lucas cut him off, his voice icy. I know what to do.

He walked towards me. I instinctively stepped back, bumping into the cold table.

He stopped in front of me, looking down. We were close. I could see my own terrified face reflected in his pupils.

Emily, he said my name.

Yeah? My voice trembled.

Do you want to win? he asked, utterly devoid of inflection.

Win what?

The Autumn Festival photo contest. The top prize. The Autumn Heart.

I stared at him.

If I help you win it how will you thank me? he pressed.

My mind was chaos. One minute he's praising my talent, the next he's this cold stranger. It felt like whiplash.

I took a deep breath, forcing my voice steady. I I don't know. What do you want?

I don't want anything from you, he said. I want you to do something for me.

What?

He leaned in, his lips almost brushing my ear. His breath was warm, sending my entire body rigid.

Win the contest, he whispered, the sound meant only for us. Then I'll tell you everything. All the secrets. About me. About this school. About the Autumn Festival.

Secrets?

He had secrets? The school had secrets? The festival I thought was just a big party hid something dark?

Why me? I was just a nobody trying to get through college quietly.

I should say no. I should run out of this terrifying room, back to my safe little world.

But I looked at his eyes, at the desperate resolve on his face, and the word no died in my throat.

I hated this feeling. This feeling of knowingly stepping into a trap.

Why should I trust you? I heard myself ask, my voice sandpaper rough.

He seemed surprised by the question. Then he smiled, a real smile this time, wry and maybe a little approving.

You don't have a choice, he said. The moment you stepped into this darkroom you lost that choice.

He released me, turning back to Professor Miller. I'll handle it, Professor.

Professor Miller looked at me, his expression a mix of pity, worry, and resignation.

Lucas didn't look back. He walked out of the darkroom.

I stood alone under the red safelight, my shadow stretching long and thin on the wall.

The photo I'd ruined was completely black now.

Just like the feeling in my chest.

Damn it.

Fine. I'm in..

From that day, my life flipped upside down.

I wasn't invisible Emily anymore. I was Lucas Vance's shadow.

He kept me close, and I was his.

We went to class together. He sat beside me, taking notes with intense focus.

I sat beside him, feeling like an idiot, unable to concentrate.

His leg would brush mine, his elbow would nudge me when he turned a page. Every accidental touch sent my pulse racing.

We ate together. He started eating in the cafeteria with me, swapping the carrots from my plate for the beef from his.

The looks from other girls shifted from envy to pure, undiluted hatred.

We lived in the darkroom.

It became our secret world. He taught me everything C multiple exposures for dreamlike effects, long exposures for star trails. He was patient, guiding me until I got it right.

Red light flickering. Chemical smells thick in the air. We'd stand close, watching an image bloom in the tray. Sometimes, he'd fall silent, just watching me.

What? I'd ask, unnerved.

Looking at you, he'd say. Like an unexposed negative. Wondering what will develop.

Once, I messed up, using fixer instead of developer, ruining a shot he'd worked on for hours.

I froze, bracing for his fury.

He didn't get angry. He just took the tongs from me, discarded the ruined print, then turned to face me.

Give me your hand.

I hesitantly offered mine.

He took it, wiping the chemical residue from my fingers with a damp cloth. His touch was gentle.

Be careful next time, he said softly. This stuff isn't good for your skin.

I asked him why we were doing this.

He said, The contest judges aren't professors. They're the Rules.

What rules?

The winner gets to know the rules.

I still didn't understand.

But I felt something shift between us. It wasn't just commands and obedience anymore. We became partners, working towards a shared goal.

He shared bits of himself. How he'd been a troublemaker as a kid. How he felt like a king the first time he held a camera. How he actually hated the festival noise.

I shared mine too. How I'd always been timid, avoiding conflict. How I liked watching people from the sidelines. How I loved to draw but was too embarrassed to show anyone.

He'd say, Draw something for me sometime.

I'd blush. You wouldn't get it.

I might not understand people, he'd counter, but I understand images.

We didn't talk much, but it was comfortable. Sometimes in the darkroom, one developing, one organizing gear, long silences stretching, yet it never felt awkward. Quiet. Safe.

I knew I was falling.

I knew it was dangerous. Knew he had secrets, terrible ones. But I couldn't stop.

Because in that flame, I saw a light I'd never known.

A light that made my twenty years of gray existence feel colorful for the first time.

Three days before the contest, he took me to the campus's old bell tower.

It was a campus landmark, long closed off and abandoned.

We climb it anyway.

Wind whipped my hair at the top. The whole campus spread out below.

On contest day, he pointed into the distance, I want you here. When the sun sets.

Shoot what? I asked.

He didn't answer. Just looked at me.

Wind tugged at his golden hair, fluttered his jacket. His eyes in the dying light were like twin stars.

He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

Emily, he said my name, his voice a soft sigh, If just if I disappeared someday. What would you do?

My heart clenched painfully.

I shook my head. Don't say that.

Hypothetical, he insisted, needing an answer.

I looked at him, at those beautiful eyes holding unfathomable sadness.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing a casual smile. What would I do? I'd say, Good riddance! Finally free of you bothering me.'

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then he laughed.

A laugh brighter than the sunset behind him.

Good, he said. Remember you said that.